Gran was in the garden of the Goliath Twilight Homes when I stopped by on the way home. She was dressed in a blue gingham frock and was attending to some flowers with a watering can.

'I just heard the news on the wireless. Congratulations!'

'Thanks,' I replied without enthusiasm, slumping into a large 'tvicker chair. 'I have no idea why I volunteered to run the Mallets – I don't know the first thing about running a croquet team!'

'Perhaps,' replied Gran, reaching forward to dead-head a rose, 'all that is required is faith and conviction – two areas in which, I might add, I think you excel.'

'Faith isn't going to conjure up five world-class croquet players, now, is it?'

'You'd be surprised what faith can do, my dear. You have St Zvlkx's Revealment on your side, after all.'

'The future isn't fixed, Gran. We can lose, and probably will.'

She tut-tutted.

'Well! Aren't you the moaning minnie today! What does it matter if we do lose? It's only a game, after all!'

I slumped even lower.

'If it was only a game I wouldn't be worried. This is how my father sees it: Kaine proclaims himself dictator as soon as President Formby dies next Monday. Once he wields ultimate executive power he will embark on a course of warfare that results in an armageddon of Level III life-extinguishing capability. We can't stop the President from dying but we can, my father insists, avoid the world war by simply winning the Superhoop.'

Gran sat down in a wicker chair next to me.

'And then there's Hamlet,' I continued, rubbing my temples. 'His play has been subjected to a hostile takeover from The Merry Wives of Windsor and if I don't find a Shakespeare clone pronto there won't be a Hamlet for Hamlet to return to. Goliath tricked me yet again. I don't know what they did but it felt as though my free will was being sucked out through my eyeballs. They said they'd get Landen back but quite frankly I have my doubts. And I have to illegally smuggle ten truckloads of banned books out of England.'

Tirade over, I sighed and was silent. Gran had been thoughtful for a while, and after appearing to come to some sort of a momentous decision announced:

'You know what you should do?'

'What?'

'Take Smudger off defence and make him the mid-hoop wingman. Jambe should be the striker as usual, but Biffo—'

'Gran! You haven't listened to a word I've said, have you?'

She patted my hand.

'Of course I have. Hamlet was having his merry wives smuggled out of England by sucking out his eyeballs which leads to an armageddon and the death of the President. Right?'

'Never mind. How are things with you? Found the ten most boring books?'